I only feel right when I’m alone.
It’s only when I am alone, that I am with God.
God accepts me, myself, and I
So, that’s why I don’t talk to people much.
People expect things, want things, twist things
God does none of this.
The breath that breathes out of me
Comes from he, she, it, we.
People do none of this.
It is when I am alone, I feel whole
More than me, who befuddles and cuddles too much.
I just want to be alone, with God
The God of Compassion
The God of Love
The God of Man, but never man himself.
I can be alone with man,
But I cannot be alone without God.

8 years, not withstanding, humming along with the tides of change,
Restless still and yet a pull from a cord attached at my navel into direction unforseen.
Bothered by sudden red colors, drawn to cool blue attractions, and longings,
For tempered hues of stoic resolve.

Stumbling, drunken and blinded by self-grandiose, it hurts less to dally in shadows,
Rather than fearlessly take possession of the generated light from within and radiated.
Water welled eyes get no sympathy, and no amount of pure intention is
Enough to calm foiling needs.

Hard up, hard down, nothing sets my heart to full distress than deep thoughts of failure,
To be vulnerable, and open to attack, unarmed and tempted to flee sight unseen.
Pure intention is not enough, foiling, an no color can keep these veins,
Clear for no sympathy remains.

The poet shall know no love for himself, but perhaps more for others.
He finds it easier, ye necessary, to blind the audience with sentiment than with true literal perfection.
Give the adoration and affection to those hungry for it with words to melt the heart and swallow the brain.
It is with perversity, gnawing and sinful, that sharing words filled with nothing,
Yet formed into something,
That any real satisfaction resembling love will occur.

The poet shall know no love, except maybe for a dimly lit table in the corner to commiserate.
Ashtray full of cigarettes and discarded prose, a glass of some liquor, and tonic to wash it all down.
Thankless in wake of writing something of use, but foolishly wanting the words to live on their own.
How sad and daunting the whole fling with words, nothing will ever replace the warmth of a listener.

Seasons go by and I remain unchanged, for my legs you see, are rooted to the ground.
Words bypass action into supremacy over my body, but my pillars stand strong.
My ability to eat red meat, raw and bloody, ensures my survival making me more animal.

Friends and lovers are the spice of my uncounted years, taking precedence over myself.
Family is to blood as these words are to me and I cannot relinquish either easily.
I will never live up to the standards and expectations of those who came before, so I don’t.

My will, my soul , my very being stays in place and never moves.
Flexibility is taken advantage of when guard is down, and I cannot allow that to happen.
Time will slow and stop for me at long last, to rest from all this manipulation.

These fissures of my brain tremble with shocks while processed thoughts make their way.
I feel an aneurysm coming at each turn, one to knock me off this self-contained pedestal.
Awaiting rest from long rushed mindfulness to bleed on to crushed steps of my temple.